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18
On my drive home that night, I decided to see Michael as soon as possible. I would not rely on Betsy's neighbors for information but would approach him directly. Clearly, her neighbors suspected Richard Stokes, and I wanted to believe they were right. But although I hated to doubt Michael, I had to know why he lied about Sunday evening. Since I was on the late shift the next day, I decided to call him in the morning.
I didn't sleep well again that night. Vivid pictures of the Stokes family chasing Betsy flashed through my mind. Even though I knew her pregnancy wasn't that far advanced, I saw her as big as if she were at term, clumsily running from the others. Only in my dream, Michael was one of those chasing her.
Immediately after breakfast I telephoned. Betsy answered. "It's Ruth Morris," I said. "Is your Dad there?"
"He went out for a while, but I expect him back soon. Would you like to come over and wait for him?"
I was surprised at the invitation but decided to take advantage of it. Maybe Betsy didn't want to be alone in the house after the events of Sunday night.
When I pulled into their driveway, I saw Michael's silver-and-gray Lexus through the open garage door. This encounter would be awkward no matter what happened, but I was relieved not to have to make small talk with Betsy.
He opened the door for me and I followed him into the entryway, past the two white fluted columns, and stepped down into Betsy's living room, all sharp angles in black and white. It looked different today without the crowd who'd filled the house after the funeral.
I had dressed carefully in an off-white pleated skirt with a black and white blouse. If my blouse had been a geometric rather than a paisley print, I'd have fit right into the room. Michael, wearing white tennis shorts and a navy pullover, looked bright and cheerful, if a bit flushed. I wondered if he'd been out playing tennis despite the heat.
He led me to one of the black wrought iron armchairs, which I would have mistaken for outdoor furniture if not for their overstuffed white cushions. I sat down but Michael remained standing. He had picked up a small terra cotta coyote from the lamp table next to me and was turning it round and round in his hands. I thought of the stone coyotes circling the fountain where Joey died. But this was foolish. I knew well enough that coyotes were popular in southwestern art now and, in fact, could see them pictured in an oil painting over the sofa and an alabaster sculpture in front of the windows. It was probably Betsy's way, or an interior decorator's way, of reconciling the southwestern exterior of the house and its sleek, ultramodern indoor look. Watching Michael, I wondered if he also associated the coyotes with Joey's death.
"Are you off today or are you on nights?" he asked.
"Nights." One advantage of being with other pharmacists is not having to explain our odd work schedules.
"I'm glad you stopped by, Ruthie."
Realizing this was his polite way of finding out why I wanted to see him, I plunged in. "I'm worried. Betsy's neighbors told me what happened here Sunday night, and I think it may be connected with the two deaths."
"I'm sure my daughter appreciates your concern," he said drily, a touch of coldness in his tone.
This was not going as I'd anticipated. "It's you I'm worried about right now, not Betsy," I blurted.
"Let me get this straight. You're worried about me because Harry's children are being nasty to my daughter."
His words did make me sound ridiculous, but I would not be sidetracked. "You know what I mean. Twice now you've said you intend to act as bait to trap the murderer. Have you considered that those accusations by Richard and the others may be smoke screens to hide their own complicity?"
"Yes, and that's exactly what I had in mind when I revved up my campaign."
"But it's dangerous."
"It's more dangerous to have a murderer on the loose."
We had both raised our voices, and Betsy now appeared in the doorway between living and dining rooms. I was surprised to see her in an off-white maternity dress with red and black vertical stripes. Surely she was in the third month at most. But maybe this was her way of announcing the pregnancy to friends, family, and nosy neighbors. I wondered whether Betsy had worn maternity clothes Sunday night, and if that had precipitated the quarrel with Harry's children.
"Will you have some cold juice?" She was carrying two glasses filled with crushed ice and orange juice, and held one out to each of us.
"What about you, hon?" Michael asked her.
"I had some while you were at the tennis courts."
"You may as well join us instead of wondering what we're talking about." Michael's voice had softened as he spoke to his daughter.
She walked over and took the coyote figure out of his hands. "Look at you," she said. "And you keep telling me to be calm."
"I'm not the pregnant one."
"You could have fooled me." She was flippant with her father, but I saw that she was concerned about him, too. I didn't know how frank I should be about Sunday night with Betsy in the room, but after a moment she turned to me.
"My neighbors used to annoy me. I thought they were always prying, so mostly I tried to avoid them. But the other night, I found out how much it means to have good neighbors."
"Denise really is a caring person," I said.
"I know that now."
"You have to admit she can be intrusive at times," Michael added. "She's been over here just about every day."
"When Harry was alive, she only came by when he was home. I used to think she had a crush on him. But I guess I was wrong."
I sipped my orange juice and said nothing. Denise must have been pretty obvious.
"For a while, I suspected her of somehow causing Harry's death. But Sunday night, she was so good to me that I changed my mind. Now after that young man's murder, I don't know what to think. Especially since he worked at Food Go with Denise."
Like carousel riders, suspicion kept spinning round and round. No wonder the police seemed to be baffled. I decided this wasn't the right time to remind Betsy that Joey had worked in my department at Food Go.
"What happened Sunday night?" I asked since she had brought up the subject.
Betsy looked embarrassed and I doubted she'd tell me anything. But I was wrong. "It was very unpleasant," she began and hesitated.
"You may as well tell Ruthie the details before she gets a distorted story from someone else," Michael said. He was still standing, twirling the juice glass in his hands now.
"Harry's children have always been cold to me, but they didn't dare confront me while he was alive. They mostly talked to him and ignored me."
Michael's expression had hardened. "I warned you that would happen if you married a man with grown children."
"Yes, Dad. And you didn't want me to marry Tim Barnard before Harry, and you had something against everyone else I ever went out with."
That was interesting news. I wondered whether I should add Tim to my list of suspects, but all the vengeful ex-husbands and boyfriends I'd ever read about went after the woman who threw them over. Sometimes they killed the men who supplanted them, too, but surely Betsy would have been the primary target. And, I thought, he wouldn't have waited all this time, either.
Michael hadn't answered his daughter. She paused a moment and continued. "After ... afterward, Dad was here, so they couldn't say too much. They managed to get some digs in. Mostly Richard. I think the others might have accepted me if he weren't so ... so negative."
"You've probably heard gossip that Harry was a rich man," Michael said. "Well, the nosy neighbors were right this time; he was quite successful in real estate and the stock market. But Betsy would have been better off if he hadn't done so well financially. It's the money that keeps his children steamed up."
"They all think I married him for it. Couldn't they recognize his zest for life? Couldn't they see how attractive it made him? Age doesn't change that." Her voice lowered as she tried to control her emotions.
Her words made me think again of Yeats's poem, and I could understand Betsy. It wasn't only Michael whose compelling personality could not be diminished by age.
"Anyhow, Dad had to go to Tucson for the weekend." Did I imagine that she hesitated over the name of the city? I certainly didn't imagine the way she shifted in her chair or the way Michael's eyes would not meet mine.
"I don't know how they found out I was alone here. Maybe they came by and didn't see Dad's car in the driveway."
"Maybe one of your wonderful neighbors called them," Michael said sarcastically.
She ignored the remark. "When they all arrived at the same time, I knew it was prearranged. I guess I was foolish to let them in, but they are Harry's family.
"Richard wanted me to divide everything equally between him and Sheila—she's his sister—and sign it all over to them. He said he'd 'let me' keep the house if I did that.
"I reminded them that Harry had changed the beneficiaries of his Living Trust because they were into him for so much money. He told me he was tired of supporting his grown children.
"Richard started shouting at me. It was dreadful ..."
"Okay, hon, it's over," Michael said. "They won't bother you while I'm here."
"And what happens later?"
"We get a restraining order if they won't stay away from you."
Betsy turned toward me again. "It got worse. Richard said if I didn't sign over everything, he'd go to the police. He said he had proof that I killed Harry."
"What kind of proof?"
"He said Harry died because I gave him my medicine, and he knew it was deliberate."
"You should know that he accused me, too," I told her.
"And me," Michael said.
"You've told me that before, Dad, but it's not the same. They always suspect the spouse. And all of them—Richard and his wife and Sheila and Scott-each one said they'd testify that Harry and I fought constantly."
I remembered Michael's words about the quarrels over the expected baby, but couldn't bring up that subject unless one of them did first. "Many husbands and wives argue, but that doesn't mean they murder each other," I said.
"Yes, but they did find my Food-Fed on Harry's night table."
"And the police have known that from the beginning," Michael reassured her. It sounded like something he'd told her before. "There's nothing Harry's children can do to harm you."
"The situation has changed now," I said. "If you have an alibi for the time that Joey died ..."
"Unless it happened earlier than what they're saying on the news, I don't have one."
"It's a shame your Dad was gone that night," I said. I avoided looking at Michael, but I could hear him move toward the armchair next to mine and heard the chair shift as he sat down.
"You ought to tell her," Betsy said.
"Yes, I was just about to." Michael rose and began to pace again. "The police already know I was here Sunday night. I had dinner with Joey."
"I know. Joey's parents told me."
His eyes held mine as if he were trying to reach beyond them into my thoughts. "So you're here because you suspected me, not because you're concerned about me."
I tried to ignore the cold tone that had returned to his voice. "Wouldn't you be suspicious of me if you discovered I lied to you?"
"No, Ruthie. If I didn't trust you, I'd be probing to find out whether you gave Harry something that wasn't prescribed for him. After all, you were his pharmacist."
"You think I ..." My voice trailed in disbelief.
"That's not what I said. I trust you."
Now I was angry enough to shout at him. "I'm not the one who claimed to be in Tucson when Joey was killed. And all the time you were with him."
"I wasn't with him."
"Make up your mind." I was still shouting.
"It looks like you've made up yours." His voice was icy now.
Betsy intervened. "Calm down both of you. You're acting like children."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not myself today."
"We've all been upset the last few weeks. Let's start over." He moved his chair closer to mine. "Joey and I met at the Sizzler at seven-thirty Sunday night. We were there, eating and talking, for about an hour and a half. Then he went off, and I hurried back to Tucson."
"You drove to Scottsdale and back to Tucson just to have dinner with Joey?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice.
"You really don't trust me," Michael said.
"What would you think if someone told you that? Supposing Richard or Denise kept changing stories?"
"It would depend on what I thought of that person to begin with."
"I see," I said. "I'm supposed to take it on faith because we knew each other all those years ago."
"No," Betsy said. "You don't have to take it on faith. I was there, too."
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